Prayer for the unseen

Spritely, spunky,
the writer with fashionable glasses
(and more importantly, nonchalance)
sits down to sip tea
at a wooden desk
and lets her words flow.

You are no Samson
so you cut your hair
and hoped you could rouse the wilting Muse
by prickling her awake.

Hibernating, she fell from your freshly severed locks
onto your shoulder
and broke a few bones.
She raised her head slightly to whisper
incomprehensible instructions into your ear,
and her head lolled,
and her eyes drifted shut.

You cradled the Muse in one palm,
all the while watching the writer
peck away at her keyboard,
jealous that she has ten fingers at her disposal.

The glowing bride, decked in red, smiles brighter
than her pearls, reminding you
of all the things you will never be,
as you struggle one-handed to eke out
letter by letter
dipping the quill in the ink.

The fibers of the feather make you sneeze.
As your hands reach instinctively to cover your mouth,
you drop the Muse.

The writer has not stopped sipping her tea,
the bride has not stopped smiling,
and you realize you will never stop trying to start.